#steve mast

[avengerscompound]

Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson

Marvel Avengers Assemble Infinite Comic (2016) #1

[lovebugism]

for fictober, can I request steve and shy!reader with the prompt “I’ll stay until you fall asleep”? maybe a hurt/comfort, steve comforting reader after a bullying incident at school?

thanks for requesting angel! this can be read as a part two to this fic!! — steve comforts you after a no good, really bad day (tw for mentions of bullying, established relationship, hurt/comfort, 1.6k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Steve waits for you in your childhood bed while you cry in the shower.

The day had been hard to you. Like a fist. It hit you hard in the gut and left a dark, splotchy bruise in its wake.

You’d been too tender to turn Steve down when he asked to come over. Still aching, you thought he might make it better. He did, in a sense, but one person can only do so much. The dark spots of you were too gloomy for your own personal sunshine to brighten.

Steve knows all this — not because you’ve told him, but because he heard you trying to hide it.

He got lonely and almost went into the bathroom with you. He thought he could sit on the counter while you showered, keep each other company and whatnot, but then he thought he heard you sniffling.

His heart ached at the thought that you might’ve been crying, alone and away from him. 

It breaks entirely when he sees you.

“Hi, pretty,” he greets in a quiet lilt when you exit the bathroom, drowning in one of his baggy t-shirts. 

A puff of floral-scented steam follows behind you as you dry your dripping hair with a towel between your palms. Your eyes are glassy and your skin is tinted a redder shade — from the heat or from the hidden tears, he can’t quite tell.

“Hi,” you answer, as quiet as usual. Your voice is meek. Tired. It wavers on the edges, still stained with lingering emotion. Steve doesn’t know why you’re keeping it from him.

“Took you awhile,” the boy singsongs with a crooked grin. It’s not a question, just an observation. He doesn’t want to pry so hard you shut down.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just got… distracted, I think.”

Steve huffs a faint laugh. The mattress squeaks when you sit on the edge of it. He rises from the pillows to take you in his arms. He doesn’t pull you any closer, though, only holds you. He smooths a warm palm up and down your back with one hand and rubs circles on your thigh with the thumb of the other.

“It’s okay, babe. I do that all the time. I just missed you, you know?”

You nod, slowly and mostly to yourself. 

He thinks you might say something, then watches you lose focus a second later. Your wet eyes glaze over with a faraway look. You get lost in your own head, rubbing the towel in your hair with absentminded hands.

“Hey…” Steve hums softly to you, ducking his gaze to find yours. His scruffy face swirls with concern. “You feel okay?”

A beat passes. Your eyes widen when you realize he’s talking — talking to you. It sounded like he was shouting at you from underwater. Like he was calling you from Earth while you sat on the rings of Jupiter. 

His hands are on you, but you’re lightyears away.

“Hmm?” you hum finally.

His smile widens, though it’s lined with worry. “You look a little spacey there, babe,” he tells you with a halfway-forced chuckle.

Your cheeks are aflame with embarrassment now. There’s nothing you can keep from him.

“Sorry…” you murmur.

“Stop apologizing,” Steve laughs, soft but still firm. “We talked about that, remember? You don’t have to be sorry for everything.”

You don’t know what to say, so you shift awkwardly and repeat, “Sorry…”

He decides not to scold you for it this time. Mostly because he knows there’s no point, but also because you do look sort of sick. You’re sunken in and paler than usual, like you’ve died and come back to life since he last saw you.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, even though your chin quivers. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you assure him, voice cracking like delicate glass —  fragile with the burning tears gathering at your waterline.

Steve deflates just like you do. “Babe…”

You weren’t going to cry. Really, you weren’t. You’ve mastered the art of biting your tongue and blinking at the ceiling until the need to weep has passed entirely. But something about the way he says it makes your heart break. It’s been hanging on a thread all day, in your defense.

He says it like you’re made of glass — like there’s no use in hiding because he can see right through you.

You break accordingly.

Your face pinches together. You take a wavering breath in. You’re still trying to keep it together in front of the boy who’s eons out of your league already, but the tears spill over before you mean them to. You put your head in your palms in a feeble attempt to hide there. A sob tumbles from your mouth.

Steve’s heart wrenches. Like your pain is his own. You stab him in the chest when you cry, then twist the knife when you jerk away from him when he tries to comfort you.

“No, don’t,” you snap, then sniffle as you wipe your teary cheeks with the backs of your hands. “‘M just being a baby—”

“No, you’re not,” Steve interjects before you can be cruel to yourself any longer. “Just— Just let me hold you, yeah?”

When you don’t refuse, he tries again. He wraps his arms more intently around you, pulling you to his chest and pressing his nose into your still-drying hair. He can tell you’re trying hard not to cry — between broken breaths, sharp sniffling, and muffled sobs into your palms. 

His eyes squeeze when they start to burn. 

He doesn’t know why you’re still hiding.

“It’s okay to cry, you know? I do it all the time.”

“Over nothing?” you bite with a venom spat mostly at yourself.

“Yeah!” Steve answers with a boyish chuckle. “I worked the graveyard shift the other night and realized I didn’t finish the laundry when I came back home. Had to pout about it like a twelve-year-old for an hour until I finally got up and did it”

You don’t mean to laugh, still a bit miserable in your way, but the visual is too funny not to scoff at.

Steve feigns offense, though he’s chuckling right along with you. “What? Crying’s a good stress reliever! One good sob fest, and you’re good to go.”

You sniffle and wring your hands in your lap. “It just… It makes me feel sorta weak, you know?”

“Crying?”

You nod. Your cheek rubs the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. Your throat wells with tears once more. “And everything already thinks I’m weak, and… I don’t know— I don’t want everyone to be right about me, I guess.”

“You’re not weak, baby,” Steve murmurs, then presses a kiss to your hair as he sways you back and forth. “You’re soft. That’s totally different.”

“Doesn’t feel different.”

“I know,” he hums sympathetically. “But it is.”

You don’t say anything. You just nod. 

“Do you wanna talk about it? The Nothing?”

You decide to be honest. There’s no use in hiding when you’re made of glass, you figure.

“The basketball team just kept staring at me all day — and laughing,” you confess, face crumpling up again. You feel as little as you did back then. “They were making a real big show of it, too, you know? Like that wanted me to see it.”

Steve burns for you. Grief ebbs into rage and turns his chest to ash. His gentle hold on you never wavers, even though his hands tremble with withheld fury. “Jason?” he wonders softly, jaw tense.

You shift, unsure of how to answer. “I mean… yeah, but he wasn’t— he wasn’t actually doing anything. ‘Cause he knows he doesn’t have to do anything.”

“Fucking douchebag,” Steve mumbles through gritted teeth.

“He hasn’t been bothering me or anything. He’s just…”

“A fucking douchebag?”

“Yeah,” you answer, laughing quietly to yourself.

“I’ll talk to him,” Steve assures you, though it’s mainly for himself. “Shoulda know he was too much of an idiot to listen the first time—”

You shake your head against his chest. “No, Steve—”

“—I bet he’s at practice right now. The basketball team usually drills in the gym during football season, so—”

“Steve, don’t,” you interject, sitting further up but staying wrapped in his arms. He looks like Heaven and smells like woodsy cologne and fresh autumn air. It heals you accordingly. “Just leave it, okay? I don’t— I don’t want it to be a big deal like it was last time.”

“You can’t just let him treat you like shit, babe,” Steve argues, chiseled features sharpened into hardened points. “I’m not gonna let him treat you like shit—”

“I can handle it on my own,” you assure him, still gentle in your way but so suddenly stern. Your doe eyes swim with it as you blink up at him.

Not weak, just soft.

Steve concedes with a small sigh. He relaxes into you again, pulls you back to him, and presses his lips to your hair. He doesn’t kiss you. His mouth just lingers. “What can I do then, huh? How can I make you feel better?”

“Can you just stay with me?” you wonder in a mousy whisper.

“Of course,” he scoffs like the answer’s obvious.

Your cheek rubs against his chest when you tilt your chin to peer up at him. “’Til I fall asleep?”

Steve’s rosy lips tug into a crooked grin. “A sleepover, huh? That’s even better— can Steve Bearington come, too?”

He nods over to your dresser where your childhood stuffy sits. He’s beige and fuzzy, older than you are and obviously well-used. You stopped sleeping with him around the time you found Steve. Being held is much different than the holding, you found.

“His name is Theodore, and no, he’s not invited!”

[teasemates]

Morning wood

Fic by suometar @camaro-and-smokes

Here's one for @hawkinsmafia whose request was "Hey Billy, can you grab a pic of Steve’s morning wood for us?"

::::::::::

The request was supposed to be an easy one to fill. Just take a pic of Steve’s morning wood. It was among the easier ones on the list.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Billy asked.

“What if I take it myself and we just say it was taken by you?” Steve suggested.

“They would know. Just think about it. There’s no way you can take a pic from an angle like that of yourself. The moment you wake up enough it starts to...you know. You know that. It would require preparing the night before, setting up a camera and planning angles and all that. And we don’t have a camera, so you’d have to use your phone.”

Steve cocked an eyebrow, amused. “You sound pretty eager to sacrifice yourself for it. To come into my room in the morning, first thing, and take a dick pic?”

Billy grimaced and felt his cheeks warming up. “I’m not particularly happy about it, but how else would I do it? I’m open to suggestions.”

The truth was that Billy had been itching to see Steve’s dick in full mast for quite a while. He’d seen a hint of its size one morning when he’d been already up and Steve had come to the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. They’d been out the whole previous night and Billy was probably just as hungover as Steve, but Steve always slept long on his free days. Anyway, it had caught Billy’s eye, even though he of course looked away as soon as he realized what he’d been looking at. It hadn’t been stiff anymore but the chubbiness in Steve’s briefs left little to imagination; he was packing.

This realization definitely hadn’t helped with his crush at Steve. In fact, it had made it deepen and also added the new layer of having sexual thoughts about him to it. To the point that the embarrassing wet dreams had returned.

The worst was that as far as he knew Steve was very much straight. He hadn’t seen Steve with any girls, or at least he hadn’t brought any with him home. But he was fairly certain Steve leaned only that one way. Billy had been happy to remain only as friends with him, though. If that was all he’d ever get, then at least he had that. But now it was all different.

He’d been thinking of finding ways to learn if he ever had a chance in hell with Steve. He’d found this one camboy on Onlyfans who, yes, had dark brown hair, brown eyes and a lean built—he could admit he had a type—he’d been now following for a month or so after his revelation with somewhat satisfactory results. It was never the real deal of course, but it was close enough. Anyway, when the camboy had declared on his social media that he was quitting his day job and doing Onlyfans for living, Billy had realized that they could try that too. Solid income from just doing a short video or snapping a photo. And they wouldn’t have to do anything but solo stuff. But even still, it would maybe bring them closer together and maybe even…well, maybe he’d eventually find out what he wanted.

So it wasn’t that Billy wasn’t more than willing to do the request. Knowing that Steve knew the pic was being taken was what made it difficult.

Steve scratched his chin. “I guess there’s really no other option. Just come into my room in the morning and...”

“Uh, yeah. Wanna let me know when you...you know, have one? I mean, I’m up probably anyway before you, so...”

“Eh, sure. Sure. I’ll do that.”

It was a few days later when it happened. Billy was having his morning coffee and on his phone, scrolling through the comments on their OF account, when Steve cleared his throat in the doorway.

Steve was blushing and he rubbed his neck with his hand. “Uh...um...You wanna, eh...take the pic?”

Billy lowered his gaze to look and... The way Steve shuffled his feet told Billy he knew he was looking. And that his eyes were probably wide and that he was blushing, too.

The tenting in Steve’s briefs was big. Definitely bigger than what Billy had, no doubt about it.

He felt his mouth go dry, and he spurred into action. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He grabbed his phone and followed Steve to his room.

Steve’s room was facing east and it had a nice view to the park, so the morning sun was shining through the window and straight onto Steve’s bed.

“Where do you want me?” Steve asked.

Billy was certain Steve hadn’t thought about his choice of words too much, but he still couldn’t keep entirely straight face. “Maybe on the bed? In the sun.” He opened the camera app of his phone and was determined to not look until Steve was ready. It was then when he realized that he was about to take a photo of Steve’s dick with his own phone. “Eh, want me to take this with your phone?”

“Oh, right. Yeah,” Steve said, taking his phone from the nightstand. After unlocking it he gave it to Billy.

Billy fumbled with it, almost dropping it when Steve took his briefs off and sat on the bed.

His dick had both the length and the girth. It had to be at least eight inches long, and Billy wasn’t sure if his fingers would’ve reached around it. The shaft had thick veins running on the front and on its sides, and the head was a bit pointy, not too much though, and it was deliciously swollen.

God, it was so, so pretty.

Billy imagined how silky and heavy it would feel on his tongue and felt himself grow hard. “Wow,” he heard himself say. “Uh, I mean,” he rushed to add,” that’s impressive.”

Steve blushed even more. “Thanks.” He shifted in his seat and leaned on the headboard, spreading his legs a little so that his dick was leaning against his left thigh, and his sack resting nicely between his legs. “Uh, is this position okay?”

Billy felt ridiculous amount of arousal from the simple change of position. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he squeaked, aiming at Steve’s groin and centering it in the camera’s finder. The shutter sound confirmed the splendor being immortalized not only to Steve’s camera roll but also to Billy’s personal spank bank. He showed the pic to Steve. “What do you think?”

“It’s my dick...What do you think?”

Billy blinked idly for a moment. He knew the question was a simple one and not what his mind immediately went to, and he had to put in a real effort not just to blurt out what he was really thinking, to choose his words carefully. Which was hard, considering that let me suck it and let me sit on it were first in line to roll out.

He thought of the delicious way it would split him open, enter him achingly slow. It would stretch him deliciously and make him moan and let out incoherent words until it was in to the hilt. With every thrust he’d probably feel it all the way up in his throat.

Or if he’d suck it, it would force his mouth wide open to accommodate it. Filling it to the brim, making him unable to think about anything else. Pushing to the back of his mouth, making him gag and choke. Spit to spurt out from the sides of his mouth and his nose, tears pushing through from the corners of his eyes. Making him a beautiful mess.

And still he’d try to take more of it, all of it. He’d want to have his nose pressed against the dark bush of hair in the root of it. Have his hair tugged and his head kept in place while he was mouth-fucked with that monster. Perversely used, perfectly and blissfully out of control.

He’d listen to the moans and gasps, breathless words praising him taking it so well, and he’d do exactly that, take all of it. Get hard from those words alone, leaking to his own briefs. He’d have to grab his dick while tears and drool and precum would mix all over his cheeks and jaw, dripping on his neck and chest. He’d jerk himself in the same pace with the face-fucking and when the warm, salty load would hit his throat, he’d finish himself off with pathetic moans formed around the still pulsing cock in his mouth…

He snapped out of his reverie, feeling hot all over. Steve was looking at him with a shy smile. “It’s, uh...i–it’s great,” he stammered awkwardly, put Steve’s phone on his desk and left the room, beelining to his own room.

He sat on his bed and pulled his now aching dick from his briefs, not having to jerk it for long before he came. He fell on his back on the bed and grimaced, closing his eyes. “Oh god,” he thought, “this is so bad.”

Later they were in the living room, Billy sitting on the floor and playing on his PS4 and Steve doing something on his laptop on the couch.

“I’m going to upload the pic now,” Steve said. “Wanna see?”

Billy paused the game and sat next to Steve. Maybe a bit too close, he wasn’t sure, because their thighs brushed against each other. But Steve didn’t flinch, so it had to be okay.

It was ridiculous how many things Billy nowadays thought way too much just because he had a crush on Steve. If it was okay to sit like this, the same way they’d sit on this very same couch as long as he could remember whenever he looked at something Steve was working on on his laptop. Or if it was okay to sit in the breakfast table together and not say a word or if he talked too much. If it was okay to do anything that used to be so easy to do when he’d been content on being just friends with Steve.

Or if Steve felt the same way.

Billy frowned. The photo looked a bit different to what he remembered—and he thought he remembered it well. “Did you edit it?” he asked.

“No…” Steve drawled. “Well, just adjusted the light a little. Is it ok?”

“Yeah. No, yeah, it’s okay,” Billy rushed to answer. He scolded himself because he knew he’d already said too much with the question alone.

Steve smiled and chuckled. “Alright.”

Billy watched as Steve uploaded the photo, wrote a caption to it with the request and posted it.

Steve glanced at him. “You know, it’s okay. I mean in the morning, when you took the photo.”

Billy felt his cheeks heating. His first thought was that Steve knew. That Steve had looked and seen his arousal. Billy looked at Steve who was staring at the keyboard. “What is?” he asked cautiously.

Steve didn’t say anything for a good while, but his cheeks turned rosy pink. “It was kinda fun. You know, having my pic taken like that. I’ve ever only taken a…” he paused and chuckled nervously, “I’ve only taken a dick pic myself.”

Billy laughed, relieved. “Well, yeah. It’s not something you’d probably do unless… you know.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Maybe…next time it’ll be easier.”

Billy smirked. “Maybe you can take my pic next time.”

_ _ _

This is Billy's and Steve's Onlyfans RP account. Billy and Steve are "running" the account, the team behind it is Aggressiveviking & Suometar. Feel free to play into or out of the rp in any way you like, all interactions are welcome 💕💕💕

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Goncharov tear down that wall

Stephen King: hey neil did you hear that tumblr made up a fake scorcese movie? King: Joe told me about it Gaiman: haha! how delightfully whimsical! how droll! Gaiman: will the limitless vista of the human imagination ever fail to delight?

Poe: neil did you hear about goronovich? Gaiman: haha! the fake movie! how droll! Lovecraft: hey neil did you hear about gorbochov? Gaiman: haha! the fake movie! how droll! Koontz: hey neil did you hear about goobooboo? Gaiman: haha. the fake movie. how droll. Barker: hey neil

King: neil everyone wants to hear your opinion on goaijiruchev Gaiman: please steve stop Gaiman: for days, i have been buffeted upon the tides of whimsy Gaiman: until i must scream, like odysseus tied to the mast, NO MORE Gaiman: NO MORE King: King: so what's your opinion

Gaiman: confound that infernal fiction! Gaiman: only in this late hour do i realize my folly Gaiman: recognizing that the unbounded human imagination can be twisted for evil Gaiman: sweet merciful gilgamesh, let us banish this wretched tulpa back to the distant caves of memory!

Koontz: hey neil what do you think about girugamesh Gaiman: i think that cursed palimpsest should sink into the darkest depths of the river lethe!! Gaiman: oh no dean Gaiman: please no Gaiman: dry your tears, good dean Gaiman: my anger was not for you

King: Gorbavaich! Gogoogamoo! Gaiman: Koontz: haha this is fun! Gabagoo! Gargamel! Gaiman: Gaiman: i must amend my long-stated position on imagination Gaiman: i now believe that it's bad Koontz: Gantagocho! Gaiman: please stop Gaiman: i hate whimsy now Gaiman: gods it hurts

In conclusion, tumblr is a land of contrasts and also BUY MY BOOK:

[libraryofgage]

Mermaid/Pirate Steddie Four

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Hi hi! It's been kind of a long week for me lmao but here's the next part! You'll def wanna stick around to the very end of the post; there's a very fun surprise for y'all lol

Also! If you like my writing or want to see a quicker update of this or another series, I've opened commissions (student loans are hitting a lot harder than I expected orz). If you're interested, you can find more information in this post

Even if you don't commission me, I appreciate your likes/comments/reblogs of my work! They keep me going and make me really happy ^_^

Anyway, now for the good stuff. As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

----

Sinking a ship takes skill, intense planning, and strong tails. Or, if you're Robin and seven guppies, it takes incredible, unbridled rage and a worry that could kill a Kraken. A ship that should take half the day to sink only takes the group two hours, their tails bashing against the hull and claws ripping planks to let seawater surge inside. Dustin is particularly brutal, recruiting Lucas and Mike to help him use the same net that caught him and took Steve to drag the ship beneath the waves.

Between tending to Dustin's wounds, lying to the pod about why they're going to be away for a while, and actually tracking the damned thing, it took Robin and the guppies a few days to catch up to the ship. And as they scavenge the drowned wreckage, pushing past broken doors and through holes in the hull, it becomes increasingly clear that they're too late.

"Where could he be?!" Dustin shouts, his gills flaring and bubbles rising in an enraged pattern above him. He takes a spear and jabs it into a water-bloated plank. "If he's not here, that means he escaped, right? So why hasn't he found us yet?"

"Steve could have been taken by another ship," El points out, her head poking from behind a mast. She's gained a dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt and is currently using her nails to dig the jewels out and drop them into a seaweed bag.

Robin frowns, swimmingly anxiously in circles. She's not the one that's good with guppies. That's Steve. If she's the fun caretaker that encourages them to play Scuttlefish with sharks, Steve is the one a tail's-length behind dragging them back to the pod before they can get hurt. He's the one who knows how to keep the guppies calm and healthy. Robin is the one who keeps them energetic and chaotic.

"He was definitely here," Will says, swimming out from a cabin on the ship. He stops in front of Robin and holds his hands out, letting her see the dull, blood-stained scales sitting in his palms.

With a shaking hand, Robin takes the scales and turns them over, hoping they're somehow not Steve's. But he's her partner. Robin could recognize him by the flick of his tail alone. So, of course, she knows they're Steve's scales at a glance.

She turns, her tail creating a small current that brushes over the guppies and forces them to look at her. "If he's not on this one," she says, "then we'll just keep sinking ships until we find him."

"Let's start with the other ship," Erica says.

"The other ship?" Robin asks.

Erica nods, pointing in the direction they'd just come from. "A few leagues before we found this one, I saw another one that was sailing in the other direction. Maybe they crossed paths."

For a brief moment, Robin wonders how she missed the other ship. But then she remembers how she's been caught between her own worries and keeping the guppies from spiraling, and she gives herself a break. "Yeah," she says, nodding as she closes her fingers over the scales. The edges cut into her palms but don't draw blood. "Let's go track down that ship. But don't keep something like that from me next time."

The guppies all nod in agreement, and Robin looks at the wreckage around them. She's half-tempted to let the guppies loot the rest of the ship, but she knows they're all aching to find Steve already. So, Robin herds them away from the sunken ship in the direction Erica pointed and hopes Steve can hold on for just a little longer.

----

Excerpt from "The Lovelorn Fool's Guide to Merfolk Courtship"

Song Types

There are several song types that merfolk are likely to use in their lifetime. While the human ear cannot distinguish the intricacies of the songs, it can tell the major categories apart.

As newly-born guppies, they know only how to vocalize wordless sounds based on their needs. These sounds are referred to as Guppy Songs. These songs are generally lacking in any real melody or rhythm. They are rough and unskilled, but many caretakers consider them precious.

Pod songs are shared tunes and melodies among the pod to communicate big news. When hearing a pod song from a lone merperson, it will sound incomplete. Pod songs usually require at least one other merperson to support or respond to the initial measures, which creates a complete and satisfying loop.

Individual songs are varied and unique, as the name suggests. They cover a range of emotions that simply can't be communicated through regular speech or bubble patterns (to learn more about bubble patterns, please see Part I: The Basics). Among these songs, the most important to know is the courting song, which can actually be multiple songs using the same opening measures and melodies with slightly different tones.

Now that you know the most basic kind of songs, we can move to harmonizing. Truthfully, a human's ability to harmonize with a merperson is nearly impossible. However, it can be done with an instrument, which can reach ranges the human voice cannot. So, if you don't know how to play one, I'd suggest learning. Harmonizing is a key step in the courtship process, after all.

----

Steve shrieks as Eddie spins him around, the sound high and grating, and clings tighter to Eddie's neck. His tailfin slaps Eddie behind his knee, hard enough to make him falter and slip on the rain-soaked deck. He falls on his ass, Steve safely in his lap, and laughs. The charms in his hair knock against each other, and Steve idly reaches up to brush his finger against one. "What was that for?" Eddie asks, the words slightly breathless.

"You surprised me," Steve says, frowning slightly as raindrops catch in his eyelashes and make them heavy. He holds a hand above his eyes and then does the same for Eddie.

"You just looked so pretty, sweetheart," Eddie says, grinning at Steve like he knows what bubble pattern his fluttering gills would create (flustered and flattered).

He rolls his eyes, looking at the sky and sea in the distance. The ocean is surging, and waves and sea foam collide as the wind picks up force. Dark clouds hang over the sea, and Steve would be concerned if he didn't know the storm would clear up soon. He can tell from the sound of the ocean and the taste in the air: the water isn't angry enough and there isn't enough salt on his lips.

The rain is still going to turn brutal, though, and Steve would prefer they weren't on deck when it happens. He overheard Asher and Jeff talking about the last time Eddie got soaked to the bone and got sick. He's not sure what a "cold" is, but he doesn't want Eddie catching it again.

"Let's go back to the cabin," he says, looking back at Eddie with a light smile. "I want to hear you play that, uh, gee-tare."

"Guitar, Stevie," Eddie corrects, holding Steve tight as he stands. He has an excited smile, something expectant in his eyes that Steve still hasn't figured out.

Steve hums, knowing very well how it's pronounced, but he likes to see the somewhat dopey smile Eddie gets whenever he mispronounces something. He gets the feeling Eddie also knows he's doing it on purpose, but he's not said anything yet.

Eddie carries him down to the captain's cabin, kicking the door shut with his foot. "Where do you want to be, sweetheart?" he asks.

After a moment's consideration, Steve gestures to the bed, looking forward to the soft pillows and even softer sheets. When Eddie places him down, he wiggles until his tail is curled comfortably, soaking the sheets beneath him, and looks at Eddie expectantly.

"Any requests?" Eddie asks, clearly amused as he grabs his guitar and hops onto the bed next to Steve. His knee brushes against Steve's tail, drawing Steve's attention briefly to the faint scar that lingers across his scales.

He's been healed for almost a day now, and Steve should probably start bracing himself to say goodbye, but he'd like to remain in denial a little longer. He doesn't want to leave. Even if he knows he'll come right back with Robin and the guppies, Steve doesn't want to be away from Eddie that long. They haven't even confirmed their courtship. Leaving before they do means any merperson with half a brain could see how much of a pearl Eddie is and try to steal him away.

Steve forces the thought away, forces himself to focus on answering Eddie's question, and shakes his head. "Just play something," he says.

Eddie nods and thinks a moment as he tunes the guitar. "Could you hum something?" he asks.

When he looks up at Steve again, there's something oddly intense in his gaze. He looks determined, as though something very important is riding on this moment. Steve isn't sure what it is, exactly, but he knows he doesn't want it to pass him by. Steve nods and starts humming a soft and familiar tune, one he's used a lot more after meeting Eddie.

It must be the right choice, because Eddie practically lights up, a grin tugging at his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes as he listens. After a few seconds, he starts plucking strings on the guitar, adding a gentle accompaniment that makes Steve's humming rock back and forth like the ocean currents.

Usually, Eddie plays fast, his music filling Steve with the same heat and energy as an underwater volcano in the middle of an eruption. But this is slow and sweet like the honey Steve tried a few days ago. It creeps through him, his gills fluttering with each note that Eddie pulls from his guitar. He feels soft and happy, his voice shifting to follow Eddie's lead as inspiration hits him.

They trade the lead back and forth between them, and Steve starts to actually sing at some point. He doesn't know when he opened his mouth and started to vocalize the notes instead of just humming them, a sweet melody forming as his voice resonates with the guitar. It just happens as naturally as swimming. Steve can no longer tell where his voice ends and the guitar begins. They've fallen into sync, strumming and singing together without missing a beat.

Steve leans closer, his heart pounding against his ribs even faster than usual. They're harmonizing. He realizes it suddenly, but it doesn't catch him off-guard. It's just a whisper in the back of his mind, a little nudge that makes him smile and move without thinking beyond the desire to be closer.

The song doesn't end naturally. In fact, Eddie is in the middle of a particularly lovely string of notes when Steve kisses him, still humming low in his throat. Eddie's fingers fumble, a sour note pulling from the guitar, but Steve doesn't care. He's too busy wrapping one hand around the back of Eddie's neck and placing the other on Eddie's chest.

He can feel Eddie's heart beating just as rapidly as his own, and Steve presses closer. He's barely balancing on his tail as Eddie moves the guitar from his lap, pushing it to the side of the bed while he kisses Steve back. Eddie pushes his hand into Steve's hair, tangling his fingers in the strands.

Steve's humming happily rises in pitch, and he finally loses his balance, his weight pressing entirely on Eddie and causing him to fall back on the bed. The kiss breaks when Eddie bounces slightly, their foreheads knocking together, and Steve can't help laughing.

"You're fucking gorgeous, sweetheart," Eddie whispers, his free hand trailing to Steve's waist and settling on his back. His fingers brush against the line where scales meet skin, and Steve shudders, his mouth going dry, and he kisses Eddie again before he can say another word.

----

Tag List (the tag list is full! I wasn't able to fit everyone, so if you aren't on here, I'd suggest following #high seas steddie. I think you should still get updates on your dash if you do)

@mugloversonly, @raisedbylibrarians, @thegirlwiththelibrarybag, @savory-babby, @vankaar, @beckkthewreck, @itcanbepalped, @imfinereallyy, @finntheehumaneater, @mightbeasleep, @weekend-dreamer7

@whenindoubtb72, @troublemaker2azz, @just-a-tiny-void, @upallnightogetloki, @mxmakessense, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @haelreadsshit, @y4r3luv, @starman-jpg, @littlewildflowerkitten, @estrellami-1, @stevieschrodinger, @gaelicblue, @they-reap-what-we-sow

@5ammi90, @noodle-shenaniganery, @acrolius, @hallelujahimatheist, @rainbow-freckle, @desidrarry-wolfstarshipper, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @79chevyimpala, @aliea82, @hopefulcookieoperatorpersona, @sani-86, @queenie-ofthe-void, @goosesister, @hello-fellow-nerds, @luthienstormblessed, @xtkxkrzrizir, @potato-of-the-lord, @geekymagicalpotato, @child-of-cthulhu, @aizawa-emma, @m-owo-n, @newtstabber, @cartercaptainofthemoon, @spectrum-spectre, @a-little-unsteddie

And, if you've made it this far, here's a little meme for your entertainment

[in-death-we-fall]

Brothers Beyond

Slipknot may never fully recover from the passing of Paul Gray, but their imminent return to the stage at UK’s Sonisphere is going to be an act of catharsis for fans and band alike. Shawn ‘Clown’ Crahan and Joey Jordison open up to Hammer exclusively.

Words: Dom Lawson Pics: Steve Brown

Metal Hammer 218 - June 2011 (drive link)

Editor’s note: The dark lord speaks…

16 Gigantic Balls.

That’s what Slipknot had to have to get back in the saddle after the inestimable loss of Paul Gray last year, and judging by our breathtakingly candid interview this month, their appearance at Sonisphere this summer is going to be one for the history books. Slipknot’s return is nothing short of heroic, and we hope you’ll love reading Dom Lawson’s piece as much as we did putting it together.

But then Hammer’s always been about getting under the skin of things to bring you a depth and breadth of metal coverage that you won’t find anywhere else, and this issue’s packed with the kind of chest-swelling bravado that makes real metal bands tick. From Biff Byford’s frankly inspiring quest to defy trends and stick to his guns, to Mastodon’s rise from the depths of obscurity to become one of the world’s foremost lords of the riff, to our first glimpse of Iron Maiden simply fucking killing it on a world-tour that’s more like a global victory lap, Hammer is all about the sorts of tales that make the musicians we love as inspiring as the music that they create. Oh, and metal in… Botswana? The metal empire is truly growing at a staggering pace – be the first to read and read about it.

And as we barrel ever-closer to this year’s positively thrilling Golden God awards, we hope you’ll take the time to add your votes to the hundreds of thousands we’ve already received. It’s also your chance to win tickets to what’s sure to be the most ridiculously metallic award show in history. I mean really, Devin and Twisted Sister on the same night? Whollee. Fucking. Shiiiit! Just head to www.metalhammer.co.uk/goldengods to cast your vote and take a part in heavy metal history.

Before we kick off these headbanging proceedings, let’s take a moment to spare a thought for the late, truly great Scott Columbus, erstwhile Manowar drummer and an inspiration to any metalhead who’s ever felt their pulse quicken to the sound of a mighty drum. Our thoughts are with his friends and family in this difficult time. Horns at half mast.

STAY METAL..

Brothers Beyond

Slipknot may never fully recover from the passing of Paul Gray, but their imminent return to the stage at UK’s Sonisphere is going to be an act of catharsis for fans and band alike. Shawn ‘Clown’ Crahan and Joey Jordison open up to Hammer exclusively.

Words: Dom Lawson Pics: Steve Brown

When the news broke last December, you could hear the cheers of elation and sighs of relief from the hot streets of Rio de Janeiro to the sun-blistered stone of the Parthenon. Despite having endured an horrific year that had seen them reduced from a seemingly invincible nine-man wrecking crew to a wounded but dignified band of brothers, following the tragic death of founder member and bassist Paul Gray back in May, Slipknot announced that (sic) were going to return, headlining the Sonisphere festival at Knebworth this July and playing a handful of other prestigious dates. The events of 2010 unquestionably pulled the rug from underneath this seemingly unyielding band’s feet and plunged them into a period of mourning and destabilising uncertainty; the endless and often witless speculation of pundits and fans on the internet only adding to the sense that the Iowans’ rudder had fallen off, leaving them lost and directionless. In the end, those who were predicting the end of the Slipknot story looked very foolish. The end of Slipknot? Don’t be fucking ridiculous.

Four months on from that announcement, drummer Joey Jordison and percussionist and visual king Shawn ‘Clown’ Crahan, the other two parts of the unholy trinity of Des Moines miscreants who put the band together in the first place, are in a far more buoyant and defiant mood than many may have predicted after watching the heartbreaking press conference that followed Paul’s death. Speaking to Hammer as the wheels of progress start to grind into action, both men have plenty to say about the past, present and future of their band and, despite having barely spoken to the press since the passing of their friend, both are happy to answer the questions that fans have been dying to ask during those months of sorrow. First and foremost, we have to ask what prompted them to stage their comeback in Europe rather than at home in the US.

“If we were gonna return, why would we not go to Europe first?” states Joey. “It was the right decision at the right time. Europe’s always been amazing to us, especially the UK. I still remember our first show there, on December 13, 1999; I still have dreams about it! It was one of the biggest landmarks of our career so why not go back now? Slipknot is not going to die. It’s a lifeforce, man. With all the feelings and emotions and the passion of one of the people who really helped to start our band pushing us forward, this is how we start again.”

You always seem to have had a strong relationship with the UK; ever since the self-titled album came out in 1999 and UK metal fans immediately embraced what you were doing, arguably more so than in any other territory. Is the show at Knebworth going to be the most important of all?

“The show at Knebworth is going to be heavy, man,” says Shawn. “We thought Download was fuckin’ heavy in 2009, but this’ll be something else. I don’t even know how to describe it, because the UK kids know us, man. I remember the first show at the Astoria in ‘99. I walked into the Astoria and there was a kid in an orange jumpsuit and a clown mask, and he’d paid £85 to have the mask made so he could be me. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I’d achieved everything when I got to the UK; the UK totally gets us. That show will be the heaviest show on the tour by far. There’ll be a lot of tears that day.”

“The feeling right now between all the bandmembers is the same feeling we had when we first came to the UK,” adds Joey. “This is a special event. It’s not like being on tour. We’re doing this out of our hearts and out of respect for our band and mostly out of respect for our fans. This isn’t contrived, some list of tour dates. This is speaking directly to the UK and to Europe. This is not bullshit. People will be pleasantly surprised by what we’re bringing.”

One of Slipknot’s strengths has always been that they’ve been adept at presenting a united front to the world. Even though it’s always been apparent that this is a band full of wildly differing personalities, the whole point of Slipknot has often seemed to be the expression of a single, focused purpose, uniting band and audience in a grand outpouring of righteous anger and joyous energy. As a result, the last year has been a little unsettling for those observing the band, not least because for the first time it has been made plain that not everyone in Slipknot has been reading from the same tight-lipped, thoughtful page. In particular, frontman Corey Taylor has been making frequent public pronouncements that have carried a faint air of pessimism and negativity.

“Part of me is ready [to carry on with the band] and there’s a part of me that’s not,” he stated back in March. “I have a lot of trepidation about it. I don’t know how to feel. I know a lot of the guys in the band are trying not to show that side, and I can’t.”

In light of the fact that Slipknot had already announced their intention to return, thus strongly implying that the band could well continue beyond these few shows and make another record too, Corey’s comments, seem, at best, a little unhelpful. Do his publicly expressed doubts about the future of the band run deeper or is this simply a case of one man’s emotions leading him away from the general consensus?

“Well, I would get into a lot of trouble if I try to speak for people, so it’s important that you print it like I say it, and I’m saying that I’m not speaking for anybody except myself,” states Shawn, firmly but diplomatically. “But in my opinion the majority of people in the band need Slipknot, want Slipknot, have no doubt that Slipknot will continue. There may be people in the band who may have a harder time feeling what they’re experiencing and only they can get over that and only they can make themselves feel that way. Hopefully their feelings will work out, and that’s exactly what we’re doing, getting together to celebrate Paul’s life, his love for music, his love for Slipknot, his love for his fans.”

The last few years have been upsetting for rock fans, with numerous major figures passing away, leaving huge gaps that can never be filled. The loss of Paul resonated as loudly and powerfully as any, partly because he was such a talented and revered figure within the metal world, but also because Slipknot have always seemed to be impervious to the hazards that cause most bands to noisily disintegrate or feebly fizzle out, whether they be as trivial as ‘musical differences’ or as monumental as mortality itself. And yet, despite having been temporarily stopped in their tracks, few would bet against Slipknot roaring back into action at full strength and with renewed vigour when they hit the road again this summer. As another band appearing at Sonisphere this July once sang, “You cannot kill what doesn’t die…”

“It’s always been that way,” agrees Joey. “Our first tour was Ozzfest in ‘99 and we fuckin’ blew every other band off the fuckin’ stage, every night. It was not even a competition. It’s not like we were trying to beat anyone; we were just being ourselves. We toured with Coal Chamber and some other bands that year too, and I recall my friend Dez Fafara telling me that one guy from one of the other bands had looked at him when we were playing and said, ‘Can you see what we got ourselves into here?’ They tried to kick us off the tour, every band did. One show in Oklahoma City we couldn’t fit anything on the stage and they kicked us off the show and we still outsold every other band’s merch! That’s the strength of what we are when we’re together as a band. That’s not ego talking, it’s the truth. It is what it is, and I’m so happy and so fulfilled with everything we’ve done and everything that we’re gonna do.”

“A lot of people won’t know that we were done with All Hope Is Gone, and we were going to take a break like we do after every record,” says Shawn. “That’s why people love our band; we’re not trying to get off our label and make a bunch of shitty records and try to shove ‘em down fans’ throats. We take time off to get physically and spiritually sound, then we get bored and take what we’ve learned from where we’ve been and we apply it to right now and we get busy with art and music, then we come and kick the living shit out of you. That’s what we do.”

Just as the trials of life can never kill a band with Slipknot’s fighting spirit, neither can you replace the irreplaceable; a fact that made the band’s decision to fight another day such a painful one. There from the beginning, Paul made such an invaluable contribution to every aspect of Slipknot’s music, methodology and rise to glory that the idea of someone else stepping into his jumpsuit and mask was simply unthinkable. But there are always ways a means to circumnavigate even the toughest problems, and so the news that Slipknot have recruited Donnie Steele, a member of a very early lineup of the band and a close friend and musical collaborator of Paul’s, to perform bass duties on these upcoming dates has removed a great deal of disquiet from conversations about the future.

“I’m glad you’re speaking with me today,” notes Joey. “You have called me on the first day that I play with my new bass player. I’m starting with Donnie tonight. I start working with him first and we have over 35 songs that we have to rehearse tonight! Ha ha ha! When we headline in the UK it’s gonna be a longer set, so we have to go over a bunch of stuff.”

What made you go with Donnie?

“It was an easy decision,” he says. “I don’t want to talk about my brother’s death, but once it happened, our phones all lit up with all these guys from other bands. I took it at a disrespect level. I was like, ‘No, no, no!’ and it just came to me one night. I woke up from a dream about the early Slipknot days, before it was even known as Slipknot. Donnie was our first guitar player. We only had one guitar player but we had three drummers. You couldn’t even hear the guitar before we hired Josh [Brainard, Slipknot guitarist from 1995-1999]. So I called Shawn and I said, ‘This is the only thing that makes sense…’ Slipknot is a family. It’s a brotherhood. When we started together, Donnie was there. The last time I saw Paul was when I was with Rob Zombie in Iowa; Donnie was there and he and Paul were writing a new record for [pre-Slipknot metal project] Body Pit. I said to Shawn, ‘He’s part of our family!’”

“The gentleman who’s filling in for Paul was very, very good friends with Paul,” Shawn adds. “They come from a school of death metal and black metal, both very technical players. Recently Paul had hooked up with him and they were finally going to do their side-project. Paul was a guitar player and he attacked the bass like he did the guitar, and that’s exactly what Donnie’s gonna do. So he’s bringing more integrity than any freakin’ person who ever thought they had a chance of playing bass in something as serious as Slipknot. I laughed in the face of anybody who thought they had a chance!”

There’s been a lot of speculation about whether Donnie will be performing alongside the rest of the band onstage or whether he will be behind the drum riser out of sight. Can you confirm or deny any of this?

“We still have to figure out what we wanna do,” says Joey. “Will he be behind me? Right now, yes. In the future, I don’t know. Right now, he’s behind me or right next to me and he’ll be watching my every move and I’ll be watching him but it’s not going to take away from my performance, because by the time we hit the stage it’s going to be easy.”

“I can’t predict the future, but I know right now there’s no new mask, no new coveralls, no new number,” says Shawn. “There’s eight guys on stage and the first guitar player we ever had filling in for Paul, because there’s always gonna be nine.”

Clearly there can be no upside to the loss of such a loved and respected figure, but the last year has at least enabled the music world to finally acknowledge Paul as the influential and inspirational creative dynamo buzzing tirelessly away at the heart of Slipknot. It has always been left primarily to Joey, Shawn and Corey to communicate with the press and although Paul was not averse to doing interviews, his relative anonymity within such a populous band meant that he was able to exert his vast influence on Slipknot’s music and ethos away from the media spotlight. Now, of course, it’s apparent that his death has left a chasm inside this band’s furious heart and that these forthcoming live performances present a huge emotional challenge to those who mourn him, both on the stage and in front of it. Joey and Shawn are clearly still coming to terms with the loss of their friend, both close to tears when his name inevitably comes up in our conversations. For Shawn in particular, Slipknot’s return to the stage is all about paying respects and doing what needs to be done.

“Slipknot is more dangerous now than ever and I have the fuel known as Paul Dedrick Gray in my blood,” he says. “I’ve been here from the beginning, when Paul recognized my ability as an artist and said, ‘Just do it, man! Let your thoughts out and don’t let anyone stop you from what you feel and what you think!’ So now I’ve got his blood boiling in my veins. I’m not just playing for Clown; I’m playing for him, for his wife and daughter, his legacy, his love for the band, his love for music. I’m not discrediting anybody. We wouldn’t be where we’re at without everybody. We wouldn’t be here without Corey, Sid, Jim, Craig, Mick, Chris, all of us. But in the beginning, there was this idea that was created by Paul and I. He wrote the kind of music with Joey that just made me want to put my face through glass. I helped start one of the biggest metal bands in the world and I’m not necessarily a metalhead. I’m an alternative dude or an indie dude, whatever the fuck that means. I was on my way to being like Andy Warhol or something! I gave it all up to be in this band called Slipknot and I love it and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Another major issue is whether or not Slipknot will ever make another studio album. Paul wrote a lot of the band’s music and was an integral part of the creative process on all four of their albums to date, but Slipknot have no shortage of creative brains to tap for fresh ideas. Corey added a dash of fuel to the fires of confusion when he stated recently that “there’s such a huge piece missing now, a piece that the fans can’t even understand. I mean, Paul always was that unconscious, almost lynchpin that held everything together. And he had such a great mind for the music that we created that without him, I don’t see it happening very soon, let’s put it that way.”

Given that it’s clear that at least one member of the band has doubts about the future, can fans truly be secure in the knowledge that their heroes will continue beyond these festival appearances and as far as a new album in the future?

“That’s the most important question you’ve asked so far,” says Joey. “We made this decision [to play shows this summer] out of respect for the music that we made and out of respect for our friend but mainly for our fans. Why would we not continue? It’s stupid to even think it. There are a lot of naysayers and all that shit. In the Slipknot world it’s blasphemy to say we might not continue.”

“Yes, I always knew we’d be back together,” insists Shawn. “Yes, I always thought we’d make another record. When? I don’t know. Is it being talked about? No, it is now. When would it ever be? I have no idea because I’m not a fortune teller, but in my heart of heart of hearts, and with Paul on my shoulder, kicking me in my face day after day, I absolutely believe there’ll be another record. How could there not be?”

Their unerring ability to sing from a single song sheet has been one of the biggest factors in Slipknot’s enduring appeal. From humble beginnings in Des Moines to their status as one of the biggest metal bands on the planet, these men prize collective focus above virtually anything else, and so it has been strange to see signs of hesitancy emerge in recent times. It’d be more than a little tacky to speculate whether Corey’s seemingly disruptive remarks about the future, and his bandmates’ self-evident but skilfully stifled testiness, are merely evidence that the grieving process affects different people in different ways, but it is also undeniably true that the internet age has made it more or less impossible for any high-profile rock band to conduct their affairs in private. The much-debated possibility that Corey is to be announced as Velvet Revolver’s new singer is a great example of this: what would normally be dismissed as idle gossip takes on a level of credibility far beyond what the known facts would seem to deserve. Social networking is the new grapevine, it seems, and Joey is not impressed.

“The internet can fuck off!” he barks. “I have an official MySpace and Facebook, but all that bullshit? I don’t use it. If you want to talk to me as a person, the internet is the worst thing possible. I do get it. Maybe it makes sense if you don’t have a life of your own. But that’s why i don’t use it. I have lovely people around me all the time and I’m blessed with everything I’ve been able to accomplish. I only have MySpace and Facebook to block people from imitating me. I don’t even have a Twitter account. But you know what? If I need to find where a good Mexican restaurant is, I can log on and find it. So the internet does have its uses, I guess! Ha ha!”

Bullshit and hyperbole will continue to make the world go round, but for now at least, all that remains is to get very, very excited indeed about seeing Slipknot again at Knebworth this summer. Anyone who witnessed the band tearing Download a collection of new arseholes in 2009 will be able to confirm that there are few bands more capable of commanding a festival headlining slot, and it goes without saying that the UK will welcome them back with open arms and pounding hearts, but our mounting excitement at the thought of Slipknot headlining a major UK festival again is undeniably tempered by a faint air of nervousness about the backdrop of grief and uncertainty that has coloured the band’s canvas over the last 12 months. One way or another, this is going to be extremely emotional, isn’t it?

“I don’t think any fan ever thought they were never gonna see Paul again,” says Shawn. “So it’s our duty to being it all together; when I walk on stage in tears, there’ll be 10,000 other people in tears with me and we’re going to celebrate in the salvation of music and what brings us together.”

“These gigs are not a job,” avows Joey. “This is more of a cleansing. All of us are going to have the most incredible shows of our career. That’s it. I’m not saying this to promote this. But this is going to be worth the wait. Of course there are gonna be teary eyes and maybe for some of us, behind the masks, but are they gonna be sad tears? No, they’ll be happy. We’re going to be there and we’re going to watch the audience explode and what better celebration could you ask for? That’s all it needs to be. Let’s just fucking rock!”

Slipknot play Sonisphere, July 8-10, 2011

“We’re gonna die for rock ‘n roll!”

Slipknot’s drummer was in Tokyo with his other band, Murderdolls, when the recent earthquake hit Japan, wreaking devastation and leading to many thousands of deaths. Here he recounts his experience for the first time…

“I was doing an interview and a photoshoot in this really rickety building when the quake started,” he recalls. “We’d already felt a smaller quake the day before, but when this one really hit it was throwing me against the walls. My tour manager Roger grabbed me saying, ‘Fuck this! We don’t need this…’ and he threw me over his shoulder and got me out of there! Everyone was trying to get out and we were the last band to leave Japan. We were like, ‘Fuck it!’ We were gonna stay and if we die, we’re gonna die for rock ‘n’ roll! That’s the Murderdolls’ mentality. We couldn’t get back to our hotel rooms because the elevators were completely fucked, so we went and stayed in the bar and got shitfaced. In the end we got evacuated. It was like, ‘If you want to make it back to the US, you need to go now otherwise you’re gonna be stuck here!’ So we finished our pints and got to the airport and, luckily, got on the airplane. Right after that is when the nuclear reactor was heating up. It was a big, intense experience. It was one for the books, I tell you…”

Shawn Crahan tells Hammer about his new band…

Black Dots Of Death

Describe your new band… “It’s a rebirth of Clown, a second coming, and it’s dangerous. It’s the next level. It’s a mix of many genres. I’m done making soft music and now I’m angry again and everything’s surrounded by death and the idea of ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ There’s a moral behind everything; it’s deep.”

What appeals to you about playing the drums? “I’ve played drums since I was eight years old, man. When you see me play drums, that’s the most personal me you’ll ever see. I don’t wear a mask. No one plays as hard as me, man.”

Do you have plans to take Black Dots Of Death out on the road? “The record is out now. Everything you need to know, you can find at www.theblackdotsofdeath.com. This is art, man, and it’s fuckin’ dangerous. But my biggest priority in 2011 is to get together with Slipknot. There will be Black Dots shows, but my biggest priority is to celebrate Paul’s life.”

Will he or won’t he?

The rumour mill has been working overtime as speculation mounts about Corey Taylor apparently becoming the new singer in Velvet Revolver. Or not. Here’s what’s been said so far…

“We recorded a bunch of songs with Corey. I think he’s fucking great – he’s the best voice of a new generation and I’d be proud to do anything with him.” [Duff McKagan, March 2011]

“He’s a guy we’ve had our eye on, but the timing wasn’t right. Weiland was available. He was out of Stone Temple Pilots. It wasn’t like we went and said, ‘Hey, dude…’ He came to us, like, ‘Hey, I’m out of my band. I’ve got time. Let’s do this.’ And it’s a similar situation with this individual.” [Sorum to billboard.com, December 2010]

“[The new singer is] a little younger, a little stronger, a little heavier rock’n’roll than we are.” [Sorum to Noisecreep, December 2010]

“A couple of people have said one thing or another, but it’s been blown out of proportion. I’ve made no comment on that one.” [Slash, February 2011]

“It’s gonna be interesting going into the third record because we’re gonna have a whole different personality as a vocalist. Chances are it’s gonna be a lot heavier than anything Velvet Revolver has done so far.” [Sorum to artistdirect.com, January 2011]

“As soon as we got off the road from the last tour and parted ways with [singer] Scott [Weiland], we got together and wrote half a dozen really great, sort of heavy metal pieces of music. It’s a lot heavier than what Velvet Revolver has put out [in the past], so I’m dying to put out the quintessential Velvet Revolver record.” [Slash to MTV News, June 2010]

“To be continued! Ha ha ha!” [Corey Taylor to billboard.com after being asked directly about whether or not he is joining Velvet Revolver, January 2011]

[heli0s-writes]

forget your perfect offering*

summary: Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.

a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.

--

Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when it’s put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. He’s even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.

Not eternity, but he’s dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. He’s got his handful of soldiers—friends— and he can’t forget that they’re friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.

Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few years—a team scattered to pieces; an entire nation’s vision discarded on the side of the road.

A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.

He’d always been reckless, but it’s becoming a flag much to red to ignore.

You tell him he’s got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and you’ll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, “Hasn’t seemed to work out for me yet.”

Back at the house—the house, not his house, or anybody’s house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenware—he returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page he’s been pretending to pay attention to.

Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.

“Hey, death boy.”

He looks up, startled. “Death boy?”

“Yeah,” you grin, glancing over your shoulder. “Death boy. Your new superhero name.”

You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because it’s been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.

Sam’s dead to the world and Nat’s going on 30 minutes under water, so it’s a fair estimate to say that it’s to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, it’ll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.

He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. “It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

You gasp, scandalized. “Silly me, you haven’t been morbid at all recently. Gosh, it’s not like you were trying to get gutted—he was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think you’d manage dodging in time?” You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, “How could I suggest—”

“That’s enough.” Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. He’s going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natasha’s finished—go drama—but he’s grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when he’s been caught out.

You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station that’s only slightly screeching with interference. There’s a discernible piano melody but he doesn’t know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook he’s crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.

For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like he’s got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when it’s inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex he’s felt is closer to vanishing.

He’s disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanity’s stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. He’s become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days he’d rather just be good and gone.

Keep it up and you’ll die.

Part of him already has. Part of him’s already in the ground.

“Come on,” you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. “Are you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?”

The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Nat’s started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but it’s persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. She’s probably freezing cold because the house’s water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but he’s been exhausted lately and no one’s going to complain because they’ve never complained about their situation-- not once.

He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then he’s on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere he’s been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.

He asks through gritted teeth, “Listening for a heartbeat?”

“I know where your heart is.”

He’s so goddamn maudlin, can’t stop the bitterness from lashing out. “Where’s that?”

“With us, death boy. With me.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but he’s on a roll and won’t be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.

You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. “You want to be hurt so bad, don’t you?” Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. “Is that what you’re used to? Is it more comfortable that way?”

“Enough,” he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.

“You want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if you’re still capable of dying.” Cold words, but your breath is hot, and he’s starting to feel it—that telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you won’t break eye contact.

“I know, I know,” you coo, “it hasn’t happened yet.” You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. “But listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.”

He can’t tell what expression he’s making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. You’re staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.

The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.

He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.

Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.

There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Sam’s backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when he’d trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but he’d follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.

But there was a line he couldn’t cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.

Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.

Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggled— giggled— when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.

So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when he’s let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.

But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like they’ve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be conversation.

But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertips—god, what he wouldn’t give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.

Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what he’d been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.

The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.

You say, both hands come to rest around his throat— because you’ve seen him now, seen him the entire time, “If you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like you’re dying.”

He gulps, Adam’s apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, “Yeah,” before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, “I’d let you do anything you want.”

Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.

She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he can’t seem to keep his breathing in order.

The way you’ve got his throat in your hands.

She doesn’t even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. “Wilson sleeps heavy,” she yawns, which implies, I don’t, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.

Then she’s gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.

You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot.  “That’s not asking, Steve.”

He’s stupid, dizzy, like he’s been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He can’t keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesn’t even know if he says it, but tries anyway, “Will you please,” and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.

-

He’s living the teenage years he never had.

You kiss him like you’ve got all the time in the world—like it isn’t past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.

“This,” he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. “I’m not good with—casual—”

“Yeah, you don’t think I know that?” You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. “You don’t think I know you’re an all-in kind of guy?”

Of course, you know. Of course, anyone who’s ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. It’s always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isn’t a word that exists in his dictionary, and he won’t compromise on that. He couldn’t do this any other way because now he wants to do it all—to feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.

He shucks off your clothes, doesn’t mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what you’re like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, can’t keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.

When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. He’s rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.

He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wants—wants.

“You’re warm,” he breathes.

When he pulls out, there’s a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.

One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and he’s using too much tongue when he kisses you but you don’t mind that at all.

He’s not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that he’s turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, he’s immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.

You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. You’re only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because you’re grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.

You tut, “If I really wanted to kill you,” you say, “I’d leave you right now.”

“Please don’t,” he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.

“Because I’m so nice.”

“Yes.” And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. “Yes, you are.”

“Steve,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.

He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.

You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.

“Sorry,” he recants.

“Steve.”

He can’t make eye contact, but you don’t ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying don’t worry about it, it’s okay.

Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.

The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternity—he can’t be bothered by it now. He figures the sun’s coming up, though, because there’s that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.

Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitation— one, two, one, two— a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.

And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.

Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brain’s wiped clear of all thought.

There’s nothing but you, and you, and you.

And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.

He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. There’s the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but it’s being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice that’s telling him how he can’t seem to stop fucking up.

He can’t breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.

And then you say, because you always know what to say, “It’s okay to be a little broken,” you stroke his chest. “Baby, that’s how the light gets in.”

And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.

“Yes,” he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed parts—the grief and agony and self-hatred—turned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawn’s light in his hair.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Okay okay. I just had this beautiful mental image of competence kink Steve. And my brain produced two fairly different images: Steve sees Bucky do something incredible during a mission. Idk what. And *oh*, he pops a boner right there and then, as much as the cup of his suit allows anyway. He can barely wait to get off the quinjet post mission, much to the team's amusement, to blow Bucky and then fuck into next week because holy shit hot

Or, Steve having an unfairly wet dream about WS!Bucky in the leather and incredible skills with all the knife tricks and so on and feeling very guilty about that. Because getting the horny from something Bucky had no control over? Not cool, at least in his mind. Bucks somehow gets him to spill though, and then ties Steve up and uses his knife skills to get him out of his clothes very efficiently, leaving Steve there as a panting and moaning mess Uh yeah my brain melted a little

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

Oh, fuck yeah, I love competency kink. We can certainly talk about that and soak in the brain melt together, lol

Besides, we all know that that fucker has one

gifs by @/linusbenjamin

and this moment haunts him 😏 because of it.

Plus, that single shield catch isn't even to mention the million other examples I could think of for Steve's fixation on the Winter Soldier. The ghost is strutting around in what's practically fetish gear, like, c'mon, give Steve some slack. It's leather and straps and shimmering metal and decisive, confident combat. Motherfucker.

I am SO fucking down to think about Steve watching Bucky execute some incredible feat on a mission and getting turned on because of it, and I will expand on that in a minute. But, also, the second option, too. YES. Steve wet dreaming about the Winter Soldier? God, it's more than just likely, that shit absolutely happened.

(I did write something about those wet dreams in this ask answer under "war paint")

(Also, you need to see this art, that is... yup. Knives and bondage and competency.)

Okay, competency on missions driving Steve insane...

(warning for canon typical violence!)

It happens like this: one instant Steve is solely focused on strangling the underling that's freshly come at him 'cause he's just trying to get through the masses of them before he can actually disarm this whole fucking shitty, dangerous situation alongwith it's leader, and the next instant Steve is totally, completely, and entirely distracted from getting an arm around this fuckers throat, squeezing off his air between his forearm and bicep. It could not be farther from his mind, really.

Rather than thinking about how he can best discard this underling and move on to the next--always plotting his following move, what punch should he throw, what kick, where's his shield, how should he throw his shield, who's around him, and are they his teammates or this month's big enemy--he's aching, not thinking, aching to drop to his knees. It is a visceral, very unchill reaction that Steve can't fucking control. There is no way on god's green earth.

The wanting to drop like a fly isn't because he's tired and ready to give in and surrender, nah, he could do this all day, it's because he's at fucking full mast in his uniform pants so suddenly that he needs a goddamn break from himself. His own hyperreactive body. It's dizzying, debilitating, how his blood rushes from circulating oxygen as fast as it can to his bulging, burning, working muscles to pooling heavy and hot in his cock.

All that hot, thick blood filling his dick out as he moves and twists, grappling with his fucking random ass bad guy, and threatening, incidentally, to rub himself salaciously against the hard pressure of his athletic cup.

His cup is cupping him.

He's big, he can't not. He's got no fucking room. It's... yeah, it's, just--

Jesus Christ.

Steve's aching to drop to his knees and more. It doesn't stop at getting to his knees. One moment and he has the worst kind of desperate craving crashing through him, leaving him hankering for the sensation of firm, muscular legs squeezing around his throat, the pressure tight on both sides, making him feel like his head might explode as he gasps for air or he might pass out without any air or he might cum from pure fucking lust at how hot it is or all of the above all at once.

All at once.

It is an onslaught of arousal. Just. His appetency is un-fucking-checked for the tingling, sharp burn of fingers raking through his hair and pulling hard until he feels it in his scalp and skittering down his back, richly feeding the fire at the base of his spine. He needs to feel body heat suffocatingly around his neck and shoved up against him from behind. Heat painted like thick, sticky tar up the nape of his neck to the crown of his head.

And all that weakening fucking hunger is inspired by one instant. A single flash that he catches, lightning-fast, out of the corner of his eye.

Dark leather molded to fit a shapely body perfectly, sinfully, waves of hair flowing like water, and the distinct glint of silver metal caught in the sun, flashy and, just, sexy.

Bucky.

Bucky, who's barely just been able to be comfortable in combat again after deprogramming but is ever-skilled. Honed. Deadly and gorgeous as a honey trap.

Bucky, who has spent more hours in the gym training with Natasha than anyone else combined--something about mutual trauma and understanding and trust.

Bucky in elegant, lethal motion, wrapping himself like a lithe snake around his own steroid-fit underling, his burly thighs squeezed around the baddies thick, muscular throat, his veins bulging in strain, balanced perfectly on his broad shoulders, and keeping the power in his own mismatched hands. The palm of his hands, like it's easy.

Bucky is fucking winning, it's plain to see. No sweat.

Bucky has shocked this baddie by mounting him, throwing his weight around with ease in a way that shouldn't be possible for a man his size. Better, Bucky has thrown him even further off, fisting a hand into his hair cruelly, pulling so hard that his choices are to let his hair be ripped out and deal with the gritting pain or follow the hold and put himself in worse danger, prolonging the time before the pain. The unnamed baddie follows, of course. Anyone would follow someone as intoxicating and beautiful as Bucky. But he's then pinned there, throat fully exposed. Perilous. The most animal form of submission, this time forced and humiliated by defeat.

Bucky is the dominant fighter.

He is in control.

And he is making it known with what would be sickening glee if Steve was anyone but himself--if Steve wasn't so fucking aroused by watching Bucky wield himself as a weapon of his own choosing, taking control, and reveling in doing good.

God.

With his thighs around his neck, Bucky deftly plucks a long, sharp knife from its holster strapped onto his mouth-watering thigh and twists and twirls it around his fingers before holding it against the underling's throat. The threat is crystal clear and needs no further explanation: move and its lights out for you.

So, the underling folding to his mercy, Bucky slowly, slowly contorts his body, displaying his oh-so flexible spine and positioning his mouth right above his ear. Steve watches him whisper into his ear--his pink lips curling over the hushed syllables in the heat of chaotic, loud battle--and shivers.

Goosebumps come to attention all across Steve's body.

Shit.

He's unreal.

He's so gorgeous and so good and so charming.

At whatever he tells him, the baddie nods stiffly, all the color drained from his face, and Bucky retracts his knife unhurriedly, perfectly moving according to his own schedule, and confidently sheathes the blade it once more. Then, neatly, he unclenches his thighs from around his throat and slithers off his shoulders. It's almost a dance--totally smooth, well-rehearsed choreography.

He defies gravity.

As soon as Bucky is far enough from him, peeled away, the underling scurries off like a frightened rat, stumbling as he sprints off. Bucky watches him go with an unhinged, almost-pitying smile, an expression just for himself, as if to say, that's right, you better run. Tell the others, too. You fuck with me and it's over. Don't bother coming back.

Steve whimpers.

Realistically, it--Bucky devastatingly executing one of Black Widow's signature flipping, twisting moves as if it's his own and something developed specifically for him, an over 200 lbs man of pure muscle and metal--all happens in the span of seconds. Or, maybe it happens faster. It may not even be a single second. But for Steve, it plays in slow motion; it lasts ages in his mind.

Still, really, just it's one instant, and then his brain chemistry has been fully altered. Immediately. His wires have been crossed over and shorted out. Sparks fly. And his reboot back to being a functioning fucking human comes in the form of a punch to the face.

Fuck.

Steve groans through the pain of a fist colliding with his face, wincing, and opening and shutting his jaw to have it crack back into place. He's gonna fucking feel that later. But, for now, he has to ignore the heavy, aching throb of his cock, the pain in his jaw, and get back to fighting.

Later, he tells himself.

Later, that'll be his treat for getting through this shit day. He can kneel and beg, forgetting himself as a drooling, heaving, out-of-breath, hot faced mess at Bucky's feet, fumbling over words as he incomprehensibly pleads to have his shapely thighs wrapped tight around his head, his neck, his waist even, anything. Just hold him there until he fucking dies a happy death between those legs.

Heaven.

[upat4amwiththemoon]

Hey can I have a platonic teen gn reader who has dyslexia( it is a reading and writing disability) x Avengers who goes to Peter’s school. They feel worthless and frustrated because they need help yet they can’t help others with English. So they try very hard yet it barely gets noticed. They are working so hard to the point they break. It is ok if you don’t do it. Thanks

Struggles

Summary: Working twice as hard just to reach their level.

Pairing: Avengers x gn!teen!reader

Warnings: I have a limited knowledge of dyslexia

Word count: 706

a/n: hopefully this is what you had in mind

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore

masterlists | guidelines

Y/N mumbles a paragraph from the assigned book again. It’s the third time they are reading it through, struggling to fully comprehend what’s being said. Frustration is starting to rise, as the book has to be read by the end of the week, and they have to write a short essay on it to prove they read it.

“This one had a mast thin as a sapling. Its sail hung skewed and fraying, its sides were patched. I remember the jump in my throat when the sailor lifted his face. Burnt it was, an shiny with sun. A mortal.” They read out loud slowly, taking time with each individual word. Sighing, they rub the space between the brows, starting to feel a tension headache coming.

They don’t have a lot of motivation to do this, because they work so hard on every single assignment, but the grades aren’t showing it. It seems like everyone else in her English class is getting effortless As and Bs, while they are crawling along with Cs and Ds.

Slamming the book shut, they throw it to the ground. Y/N leans their head against the table, shutting their eyes tightly. The amount of work they have to put in their school work is starting to get overwhelming.

Taking a deep breath in and letting it out, Y/N lifts their head and gets back to reading. They know they have to use more time to finish the work, even if it’s starting to feel like too much.

Y/N stares at their paper as they and Peter walk into the compound. D. All that work for a D. Their eyes are burning as the two come up to the living room, where some of the Avengers are hanging out. Although, Peter doesn’t live at the compound, he spends a lot of his time there, being good friends with Y/N.

“Hey, kids!” Tony is the first one to greet them. “Got your English assignments back today?”

Peter nods, taking out his paper. “I got a B+.” He smiles.

“Great job, kid!” He claps his hands together once.

“I know the Avengers work takes a lot out of the both of you, so we want you guys to know we’re proud of you.” Steve smiles before turning to Y/N. “What did you get?”

“A D.” They mumble, eyes and cheeks burning. Their gaze is cast downwards, away from their team’s eyes. They don’t want to see any disappointed looks. “I’m sorry, I really tried. I worked so hard on it. I did my best, but it wasn’t enough.” Their voice starts to crack and their whole body shake.

“Hey, hey,” Natasha gets out of her seat, walking to Y/N, “it’s okay. Grades aren’t everything, you don’t need to apologize.” She wraps her arms around them.

“But it’s not just this assignment, it’s every single one.” They lean against Natasha.

“Why didn’t you tell us? Or ask help from anyone?” Steve asks.

Y/N hiccups, lifting their head. “I wanted to prove I could do it by myself, that I could be just as good as everyone else. But I couldn’t.”

“We all need help with something.” Peter sets his hand on Y/N’s arm. “I always need Steve’s help with history. I just can’t remember all the names and years on my own.” Steve nods in confirmation. “I’ll help you out with English, okay? We can work on the assignments together.”

Wiping away their tears, Y/N nods lightly. They didn’t necessarily feel good about crying in front of everyone, wanting to keep a capable picture of themselves in front of the others, but they still feel relieved to get it all out in the open.

“Thank you.” They whisper.

“We’re all here to help you, kid.” Tony speaks up. “Well, they are. I’m no help in book essay thingies.”

With a small laugh, Y/N nods again. “Do you want to go over our essays together now?” Peter asks.

“Yeah.”

Peter and Y/N start walking out of the room. “You two always make us proud!” Tony shouts after them, showing a thumbs up. Peter smiles giddily as they walk towards his room, craving Mr Stark’s acceptance.

[avengerscompound]

Tony Stark & Steve Rogers

Marvel Avengers Assemble Infinite Comic (2016)

[loveshotzz]

Before you post an update on iginro i need you to know the last scene of ch 4 ruined me. i was thinking about him at work giggling in the office. lying in bed thinking about him. on the bus thinking about him. save me

what if I told you he was also dancing….

A little snippet for you:

Your flip flops clack loudly against the pavement with your determined walk up to the shop. The spaghetti strap sundress you threw on in a silent rush, careful not to wake up Robin does very little to help cool you or your mood down. Steve’s chain bounces against your chest with each step, the gold shimmering against the sunlight in a pretty reminder that you still haven’t taken it off yet. One that you choose to ignore in your huff.

Reaching the end of the block, you notice Eddie’s van is missing from the parking lot, leaving only Steve’s BMW parked against the side of the building. Stopping in your tracks, the realization that you no longer have the buffer you thought you were going to have has nerves threatening to get the best of you. The lack of self control you’ve already shown has your confidence wavering more than you’d like to admit as you force your feet to keep moving.

Steve’s side of the garage is the only one open, the bright red metal door at half mast to keep some of the sun away. Michael Jackson’s The Way You Make Me Feel bleeds out of the space, bouncing and echoing off the cars inside, waking up the butterflies and sending them soaring. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you try not to imagine the way you know he’s singing along, or how the curl that won’t stay back is probably falling over his forehead as he bobs his head to the beat.

Why is Eddie not here?

You see his boots first, then the legs that were intertwined with yours just a few hours ago, now adorned by blue coveralls. Walking across the exposed space, he comes to an abrupt stop and for a second you think maybe he sees you, but then he shuffles back a few steps before continuing forward. He was dancing and you hate the way the corners of your mouth twitch because of it.

Rip the band aid off.

[ghosttotheparty]

love me softly p4

@heart-of-a-rose they!!! see!!! each!!! other!!!! (@theysherobinbuckley <3) cw: steve discusses His Father with eddie; nothing is explicit or anything but its implied that his dad is abusive & neglectful

part three

-----

He goes to Gareth’s the next day. His mom answers the door.

“Hi, Mrs Gareth’s mom.”

“Hi, Eddie. He’s in his room.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“She’s told you that you can call her Linda,” Gareth says as soon as Eddie is pushing aside the curtain to his room, laying on his bed with a book in his lap, spinning a drumstick.

“Yeah, I can also walk into traffic, but that doesn’t mean I want to or that I’m going to.”

“Whatever, man. What’s up?”

“Uh.”

He lays on the floor, looking up at the posters Gareth has tacked to the ceiling.

“You remember when I said that I, uhm. Like Steve?”

“Unforgettable knowledge, yes.”

“Uhm.” He’s grinning at the ceiling. His face almost hurts. “I got a… slight, sneaking suspicion it may not be entirely one-sided.”

Gareth drops the drumstick, and it clatters to the floor.

“Elaborate right now.”

He elaborates. Tells Gareth about detention, about the first-name basis, about the way Steve’s cheeks flushed and the way he laughed, the way he half-heartedly tried to stop Eddie from flipping through the notebook, about the fucking drawing.

“And you’re sure it was you?” Gareth asks, now sitting up and looking down at Eddie, wide-eyed.

“Positive.”

“…Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Is he… Do you think he’s queer?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie groans, throwing his arms over his face. “I don’t know.”

“I mean— he’s slept with like every girl in the school, I—“

“I know.” He sighs heavily. “But… Even if he isn’t, he’s… He’s different.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean—“ He throws his arms aside, huffing. His eyes trace the fraying edges of an old Metallica poster that’s overlapping a faded map of constellations. “He’s not a douchebag.”

“Eddie…”

Eddie just groans loudly, rolling over.

Mrs Gareth’s mom gives him a Tupperware of food to take home before he leaves.

When Eddie sees Steve at school again, Steve’s eyes are practically shining at him, and his cheeks flush pink, and he suppresses a smile before he looks away, and Eddie wants to scream. He can see the corner of the notebook, the folded blue front page, sticking out of his backpack next to him.

On Friday, Eddie attends a party. He wasn’t invited, he never is, but no one ever really minds when he shows up with his tin lunchbox.

Parties always get him good money, dumb kids wanting to lose their minds for a night and willing to give Eddie any amount of money for it.

But the noise and the the lights tire him after a while, and he leaves his can of Coke in the sink, wincing as he skirts past people, winding through crowds of dancing and shouting people. The front door is practically blocked off, the front porch so full of people that just looking at it over the others’ heads makes his body ache.

So he swerves, keeps his head down as he finds his way down a hall. He knows there’s a bedroom down here, with a window that should go right through the backyard.

A hand grabs his shoulder as he’s opening the door, and he turns, startled, the lunchbox bumping the person behind him.

“Shit—“

“You got coke?”

Eddie blinks, recognising him from the hallways at school. His eyes are bloodshot, hanging at half-mast.

“I’m not selling right now, man,” Eddie says, moving the lunchbox away from him.

“Come on, Munson.”

“No.” Eddie shifts into the doorway of the bedroom. “Go drink some water or something.”

“Dude, I’ll pay you whatever, just—“

“No,” Eddie snaps. “You ask again and I’m not selling to you ever. Get outta here.”

The guy huffs, and Eddie braces himself for impact, but he just stumbles away down the hall. Eddie shakes his head, watching before he steps into the bedroom and shuts the door behind himself, leaning to look around the four-poster bed to see out the window.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Jesus—“ He jumps, almost dropping the lunchbox, and Steve Harrington is sitting on the ground against the bed, laughing. “Christ,” he finishes, pressing a hand to his chest, and sure, maybe he’s hamming it up a little, but Steve’s eyes are sparkling, and he’s giggling at him. “Scared the shit out of me, Steve.”

“My bad.”

Eddie scoffs.

“Why’d I do what?”

“Not sell to Andy,” Steve says quietly. Eddie looks down at him. He’s holding a bottle in his hands between his knees. “He probably woulda paid you anything.”

“I know,” he says, hesitating and looking down at him. “Can I sit with you?”

“Mhmm.”

He sits heavily next to him against the bed, sighing.

“He’s high off his ass,” Eddie says. “Woulda paid me anything, probably woulda taken it all in one go. I like money but I don’t like being kind of responsible for overdoses.”

Steve just nods silently, his eyes trained on the bottle he’s holding.

“You’re a nice guy,” Steve says quietly after a moment.

Eddie scoffs.

“What are you laughing at?” Steve says, looking at him. His eyes are shiny. He looks sad.

“Don’t really hear that often.”

“You’re nice.”

“I think you’re nice.”

Steve is quiet, staring blankly at the floor.

“…Do you,” he says so softly it’s almost just a whisper.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “You’re not like those other douchebags.”

“…My friends?”

Eddie winces.

“Sorry, I’m…”

“You’re right.” Steve sighs softly. “They are douchebags.”

Eddie relaxes against the bed. They’re sitting so close he can hear him breathing.

“Why are you friends with them?”

Steve keeps staring into space, shadows falling across his face in a way that makes him look like a painting. It’s quiet except for the muffled thumping of music, of voices shouting and singing.

“My dad works with Mr Hagan,” Steve says quietly. “If Tommy and I fight, or he hates me for whatever reason, and he tells his dad, it could…” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “Fuck with my dad’s business. Which I don’t really give a shit about, but when things at work are rough, Dad gets pissed, and when Dad’s pissed…” He trails off, sighing.

“Dads really suck sometimes,” Eddie says softly, and Steve scoffs.

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and Eddie sets the lunchbox down on the floor.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Hit me.”

“You draw often?”

Even in the dim lighting, Eddie can see Steve’s face flush pink, and Eddie grins.

“What makes you ask that?”

Eddie snorts, and Steve is giggling again.

“That drawing I saw,” Eddie says, looking at him. “I mean, it was… it was good. You don’t get that good with just one drawing, right?”

“Shut up,” Steve says shyly, holding the bottle to his chest. “It’s… I’m not supposed to, but…”

“Explain.”

Steve pauses, biting his lip and letting his head fall back to the bed. Eddie’s eyes trace the line of his throat.

“I drew when I was a kid,” he says quietly. “And it was fine, because I was a kid, and my teachers all said I was very creative, and had good motor skills, and…” He shrugs, looking across the room. “And then one day I tried to show my dad a new drawing. It was a pirate ship.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly, listening intently.

“And he snapped that Harringtons aren’t artists.” His mouth twists thoughtfully before he takes a breath and leans toward Eddie without looking at him. “He threw away all my crayons.”

“Your dad sounds like a royal asshole.”

“Yeah.” Steve laughs softly. “I couldn’t stop drawing though,” he says. “I wasn’t allowed to listen to music, and I never wanted to spend more time than necessary with my friends, and I’m shit at reading, so… It became like… an escape or some shit. I just never showed anyone.”

“I’d like to see more of your stuff,” Eddie says. “If you’d let me.”

Steve’s head falls back to the bed and he’s quiet for a moment.

“What’s your locker number?”

“My locker number?”

“Mm.”

“You gonna leave me little notes and shit?”

“…If you’d let me.”

Eddie’s cheeks flush and he looks away.

“Two thirty-six. In front of Wilkinson.”

“Cool.”

They’re quiet again. It’s oddly peaceful. Eddie’s never been a big fan of the quiet, always interrupting it with heavy music or his own voice, humming or talking to himself or just making noise. But with Steve it’s nice. He can almost hear his heartbeat.

“So what are you doing hiding away in here?” he asks after a while.

“Uh.” Steve sighs, taking a sip from the bottle. “Hiding away.”

“From?”

Steve shrugs.

“Everything, I guess. ‘S really fucking loud out there. Tommy’s being more of a dick than usual.” He pauses, swinging the bottle in his fingers. “Can’t drive, though. So I’m…”

“I was about to leave,” Eddie says gently. “I can give you a ride.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Just going to drive around,” he says truthfully. “But I can take you to your place if you wanna go home.”

Steve stares at the ground, his expression hardening as he thinks, brows furrowing, lips frowning.

“No, I wanna go with you.”

Eddie blinks.

“Just… to drive?”

“Yeah.” Steve glances at him, runs his face shyly. “My dad’s not home, but it— it always feels like he is, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. “I know.”

Steve leans his head back, draining the bottle. Eddie watches his throat bob as he swallows.

“Uh, but we gotta go out that window,” Eddie adds, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks, pointing at the window. “It’s like the whole school is on the front porch and I am… slightly claustrophobic.”

Steve laughs lightly, his eyes shining again.

“Okay.”

Eddie beckons with a tilt of his head.

“Let’s get out of here.”

next part

read the whole thing on ao3

[frostironfudge]

Keep My Secret - (Bucky x Reader x Steve)

Summary: The search for Bucky and Steve is shrouded in darkness, will you find the light and the loves of your lives?

my entry for @the-slumberparty 's week one i spy challenge, i had the theme isolation and setting fairy tale and this is what i came up with, hope you enjoy it! ‘Leather cuffs’ and ‘bouquet of flowers’ were also prompts.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: dark setting, allusions to future dub-con (none explicitly described or stated), isolation, kidnapping, dark magical elements, dark character and one soft dark character (i'm not saying who is who because i don't want to give it away), allusions to torture, wounds mentioned, mind control, power dynamics, dark fae magic.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader x Steve Rogers

Main Masterlist || AO3

The scent of rain soaked mud slowly clambers up the endless walls. You do remember the word for it, the grogginess around your mind isn’t clearing. Otherwise you’re sure you would know. 

A rumble in the distance followed by a louder boom. You hear a cough followed by a groan. The presence is familiar. The darkened room seldom aids your half mast gaze. 

Dull aches finally register along your temple and cheekbone. When your fingers reach out the remembrance sets in, leather cuffs. Binds that tie you to this fate. Another groan, your head lols towards it. You whimper as you recognise him despite the state of his body. 

“B-bucky?” You call out, his head snaps up, then he groans yet again. 

Bucky shakes off the pain, enhanced vision allowing him to trace you across the circular room. Strands of his now long hair fall back. Months. Months spent locked in this tower. Months since he was gone and asked you not to follow. 

His brows furrow, there was something different today in the tower and it wasn’t the petrichor. Cobwebs still decorated the ceilings, dust settled in around objects. The table with familiar tools is the only clean surface, and there lay coated in the softest of dew drops—bougainvillaeas. Tied with a leather string. Bucky’s eyes find you again. The flowers held meaning to you. Currently the bouquet symbolises you. 

“Malyshka (baby).” 

You look back at him from the floor. The flash of lightning outside illuminates him. Blue eyes full of worry, crimson coats his skin. It felt as if eons since you heard the endearment from his lips. 

“What have they done?” You beg to know, “Bucky, where have you been? I, I—,”

“Malyshka, I told you not to follow me.” He sighs, on his knees making his way towards you. The chain tugs on his arm when he attempts to touch your face. 

“You were gone, you promised and you were gone. Just like he did. I had to find you. We’ll get out.” You assure him, you had a plan, you had the tracker. Sam would find the two of you. “Then we’ll find him, we will all return home.”

“Malyshka, we are—,”

The door opens, cutting off Bucky’s reply. 

Fresh flame torches carried in by the soldiers in black and red replace the burnt out ones on the walls. The stone illuminated with an orange glow. The flames flicker as the only window allows wind into the room. They leave the door open. 

A larger figure walks in, a mask covering his face, a mane of dark hair surrounds him. 

“Did you like my present?” he questions, the voice carries an echo of foreign familiarity, his large palm moving to cradle Bucky’s head, fisting in his hair. Bucky’s jaw clenched. 

“Hmm, this hair suits you better. A reminder of glorious days.” The man hums. 

“I have no need for presents.” Bucky spits out and the man tsks. 

“The gift of flowers was for her, you need to be more appreciative. I remember you being more affectionate.” The man sighs, fingers running through Bucky’s hair, almost intimate. Your brows furrow. The brunette turns his head away away, then a slap echoes through the room, “Be respectful, Soldat.” 

Bucky spits out the iron laced saliva pooling in his mouth. 

You look at the flowers, one of your lesser known favourites. Only two people knew the meaning the flowers held for you. 

Your eyes widen at the HYDRA symbol on the man’s back. He turns to you. The mask hides his identity and unease pools in your stomach as you stare at the void blackened eyes of the mask. 

“Tell me then,” the man squats before you, gripping your chin harshly, you cry out as his gloved fingers dig into the cut along your jaw, “I asked you a question, did you not like flowers, mo chridhe (my heart)?” 

Bucky closes his eyes as your accusing gaze meets him, then back to the masked man. The dark laughter echoes around the room and cracks your heart into pieces. 

He squishes your cheeks together, your tears pool over his fingers, trailing down the glove to his wrist. 

“Ste-Steve?” You ask, he shakes his head, taking off his mask. The beard on him familiar, his hair longer, indicating the time of him being gone. However the blue eyes you fell in love with and saw your future in are now surrounded by a thin ring of silver. 

The lips belong to Steve but the smile is no longer warm, it only sends a cold chill through you. 

“B-bucky, what—,” You sputter, Steve’s grip tightens. 

“Are you going to tell her, baby?” He quirks a brow, lazily looking back at Bucky. 

Bucky’s shoulders shake, lips trembling. He meets your eyes with tear stained cheeks. 

“He isn’t, he isn’t our Steve.” 

Your widened eyes move back to him, no, it can’t be, Steve is, Steve is supposed to, what has HYDRA done to him?

“Oh mo chridhe, your shared Steve’s long gone, but fret not. I will make sure the two of you are cared for, like my own sweet little pets. I remember everything your Stevie did and had done to him by the two of you. Mmm, wrapped around me, wrapped around Bucky. You are quite the sight.” He smirks, eyes alight with a mirth you cannot find yourself in this bleak tower. 

“Who are you?” You question as he releases you, “you aren’t Steve, Bucky, this isn’t, no. Please we have to fight him! We have to find Steve!” You plead. 

Steve shifts, you then see it, Bucky’s missing arm. How had you not noticed? You look around the tower. Flashes pass through your mind, the forest, the mist, and the torn wings. The sobbing man. Pleading for help. 

The flash of blonde and blue. The call of help from brunette and azure.

You gave the hunched over man in pain your name. 

“Why, I’m Steve Rogers of course. He’s James Barnes and you are Y/N Y/L/N. You should never give the fae your name but shh, my little play things,” Steve cups your head and Bucky’s, “Those little soldiers outside know me as Hydra Supreme. So let's keep this little secret between us three. Hmm?” He raises a brow, then chuckles at your hurt expressions, eyes crinkling and reminding you so much of your Steve. 

“Oh cmon, you look at me as if I killed your little Stevie. Maybe I did, but I will make you forget, I’ll let you rule, well atleast beneath me.” He leans closer, lips brushing against Bucky’s chapped lips and then your busted one, he licks the stray traces of blood humming, “What do you say then my pets?” 

“If you think for one second we’re going to agree with you you second rate, fucking asshole—,” Bucky’s eyes glow silver, his words cut off, “I want to rule under you, Sire.” 

“Please, not Bucky, please, don’t we, Steve, please we—we will rule under you, Sire.” Your words aren’t your own, you watch on as Steve smiles pleased with the two of you. 

“Such good pets, I will allow the two of you to feel pleasure tonight but after I’ve had my fill. It’s going to be a long night.” He turns away, releasing the glamour from Bucky. 

Bucky blinks, the silver disappearing for a moment from his eyes. He stares down at his arms, both flesh and metal and then at you with your eyes gleaming silver. 

“Steve.” He says in warning, “She doesn’t deserve this, please reconsider. I know we wanted her all to ourselves but I can’t strip her of her will.” 

The blond clicks his tongue, eyes narrowed at his lover, “I do not appreciate you disregarding every single bit of my sacrifice for you two, James. Do not force me to stoop low for you too.” He turns walking towards the table, picking up the flowers. 

“You already have,” Bucky shakes his head, gently cradling your face, your eyes vacant, “I’m so sorry, Malyshka.” 

Steve’s jaw clenches, anger coursing through his veins. The flowers fall to the floor, stems broken, petals scattered. Bucky turns, reaching for the gun in his holster. 

“You shouldn’t have given me your name, James Barnes. You little humans, your love shall be your undoing.” Steve waves a hand, Bucky lands on his knees. 

Dust rising around the two of you, gleaming collars forming around your and Bucky’s necks, chains attached and held in Steve’s palm. 

“Now, crawl to your king, my pets.” His menacing smile widens as you both fall on all fours.

-x-

[antidrumpfs]

 It's smoke, and it's flames now ... and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring-mast. Oh, the humanity...

Cartoon by Steve Sack

[captain-price-unofficially]

Flying Officer Lee Turner RAAF (navigator, left) and Flying Officer Steve Sykes RAAF (pilot, right) of No. 455 Squadron RAAF, inspect the top of an armed trawler's mast which became embedded in the nose of their Bristol Beaufighter

[grandmother-void]

Oh and something else is you know from Archie's perspective she's on this crazy, insane, over-the-top captain's ship (which is about par for the course for her yeah) but she keeps hearing about "oh he wasn't always like this," and totally gets the backstory from Jim and French and Fang about how he wasn't always quite so insane, and in FACT he was actually in love with this guy Steve and he got dumped and that's why he is how he is. And THEN Stede himself turns up and we get a little of Archie's perspective when she says "I thought you'd be taller" but think about it! Blackbeard is a crazy insane dude who puts a gun to his own head, shoots his best friend, tries to get you and someone else to fight to the death after steering the ship into the storm AND threatens to shoot a cannon into the mast, and then the very next day your ex-captain is standing in front of you in pajamas with a bell around his neck talking about safe space ships and making heart eyes at Stede. What a mindfuck.